Beloved Kismesis
by teaandcharcoalforbreakfast
Summary: I wrap my hand around his throat. I've had enough of his speeches for a million fucking lifetimes. My grip's not hard enough to keep him from breathing, not hard enough to hurt, but it quiets him. He might be bigger, he might be older, but tonight I'm going to dominate.


**A/n: **So this was written for black-quadrant on tumblr, but I cleaned it up and decided to post it because I've become somewhat fond of it.

I might be updating more than usual for a while because I have eight word documents of partially finished stories on my desktop and the longer they sit there the more their not being finished and posted annoys me.

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I wrap my hand around his throat. I've had enough of his speeches for a million fucking lifetimes. My grip's not hard enough to keep him from breathing, not hard enough to hurt, but it quiets him. He might be bigger, he might be older, but tonight _I'm _going to dominate.

He lays quiet and still beneath me. It's an odd state for him. His eyes are blown wide, his mouth open and gasping. I'm straddling his chest, pinning his arms down with my thighs. Leaning forward I press down a little harder. There's no fucking way I'm rolling over for him.

Last time I did. Last time his weight was on me, crushing me with his greater bulk. There was nothing I could do against the soft bulgemunch. It was so embarrassing. It must be even worse for him now. He's being topped by someone much shorter, much skinnier, and there's nothing he can fucking do.

We're already both naked, so it's simple to reach back and coax him open. His bulge, as large as the rest of him, slides out. I don't take my eyes off of his face. The moment it's all the way out I pull my hand away. He can suffer, getting cold, feeling lonely. I know he likes it. He's shaking and shuddering beneath me.

I open my mouth and begin to taunt him. I don't listen to what I'm saying. It doesn't really matter. They're just whatever words come to mind. I'm good enough at saying things that are rude and things that are stupid to do it on auto-pilot.

It's working. His careful layers of calmness and self-righteousness are peeling away under the onslaught of my taunts. He's baring his teeth. He begins to snarl and I squeeze his throat, reminding him who his master is for the night. I wonder how his eyes would look if he was still alive. After all this time the white still unnerves me. I want to see red and yellow, I want to know if they're just like mine have become. For now his eyes are just one more of innumerable differences between us, one more little "fuck you" to our nearly identical genomes.

"Are you going to behave?" I ask him. "Should I let you have it?" I loosen my hold so he can speak.

"Yes."

"Yes what?"

"Yes, master."

I lift my other hand and smack him. "Yes, _what?!" _

"Yes you- you fucking asshole!"

"Much better," I purr.

I slide down, let his bulge slide against my sheath and coax me open. He doesn't dare move. After the last time he did, I tied him up, jerked off on his face, and let him writhe in agony for hours until he screamed for forgiveness.

Honestly, though, I wouldn't mind if I got to degrade him like that again. He was so beautiful with my genetic material dripping down his face and chest, a perfect little debauched whore. _My _debauched whore.

As far as I know, his friends assume he's still celibate. That's fine with me. It means less competition. I don't know I'd be able to hold onto him otherwise. It's not that I don't keep him angry, keep him satisfied, but I'm-

No, fuck, stop it. You can pity yourself later, karkat, when you don't have your dancestor begging for your bulge.

I roll my hips forward and our bulges wrap together, rubbing, touching, fucking. Here, at least, we match. He's a little bit longer, and certainly wider, but other than that his mirrors mine. And perhaps it's better that he's larger. That way he wraps around me more than I do him, and I can take from him more than he can from me.

Sometimes I wonder what it would be like to let him inside my nook. Would it hurt? Would I have to stretch to him or would he contort to fit me? It doesn't matter, though. He's my kismesis.

_Beloved kismesis, _my mind hisses, traitorous as it is.

I sink my teeth into his shoulder and his shout drowns out that voice. There's blood in my mouth. Our disgusting, shared mutant blood.

It's delicious.

Our hips rock together, a little extra stimulation for our bulges to get us there faster and make it more intense when we come. It isn't long until he pulls our bucket from his sylladex. It's battered and clawed and permanently stained slightly pink. We sit and fill it almost to the brim. We always do.

He collapses and I go with him. I doubt that this, at least, is normal kismesis behavior. I'm certain we're supposed to shove each other away and lick our wounds in private. There shouldn't be cuddling against his warm, soft body. There shouldn't be sated kisses and gentle touches.

But there are.

There always are.

_Beloved, _my mind whispers again.

I tell it to shut the fuck up.


End file.
